


The Vate

by firstwiththeheadthenwiththeheart



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Drama, Minor Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken, Minor Scott McCall/Malia Tate, Multi, Slow Burn, minor Stiles Stilinski/Lydia Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 16:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12774489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstwiththeheadthenwiththeheart/pseuds/firstwiththeheadthenwiththeheart
Summary: Ophelia Sheridan moved back to Beacon Hills just a little over a year ago--where she had been successful in avoiding most of her old, childhood friends. She wanted nothing more than to graduate, so that she and her little brother, Clinton, could move on to bigger and better things; but one night, after making the poor decision to go for a jog, everything changes.Ophelia just can't decide if it's for better, or worse. Scratch that, it's most definitely for worse.





	1. The Bite

Her throat was raw, and her lungs were shriveling up like raisins. Every breath Ophelia took felt as though something were trying to claw its way up her esophagus, leaving the soft tissue in ribbons.

_It’ll be good for you_ , her brother had said. _It’ll be fun._

It wasn’t fun.

When had running _ever_ been fun?

Certainly not now from where she stood with her hands gripping her knees as she desperately tried to breath in the middle of the woods.

Clinton was a liar—not that that was particularly new information. He always hid the best cereals, claiming he ate them already, and he always told everyone he had beaten _Okage_ without cheats, which was a _lie_. And he _always_ cheated at board games, _always_ told their dad that he did the dishes when she had, and _always_ told their mom that he was going to his friends’ houses when he was really meeting up with random girls.

He was a liar, and she hated him.

Well, hate was sort of a strong word, but she was thinking about feebly kicking at him, since her legs didn’t seem to be working properly anymore, nor did she think she had the lung capacity, at this point, to chase him down.

It was starting to get dark, which was definitely a problem. She had learned, from various weekends, school breaks, and summers filled with binge watching crime TV shows, that women should never going jogging at dawn or dusk. Only bad things happen at the cusp of the sun either rising or setting, like roosters crowing, or raccoons rooting through the trash, or murder. 

Ophelia hadn’t actually thought that she would make it as far as she did—two miles, only taking her about twenty minutes, which was nothing compared to what the walk home was going to take her, if her wobbly legs even made it that far.

There was a good chance that she would be crawling home, or sleeping in a shrub.

_Take the path through the woods_ , Clinton had said, _no one will see you._

Surprisingly, at the time of the conversation, Ophelia had taken this statement and put it on the ‘pro’ side of her mental pro-con list of going for a jog. If no one could see if her, then they wouldn’t be able to look at her sweaty, red face, or be forced to listen to her wheezing. However, now it was starting to feel more like if no one could see her, then no one would be able to stop her inevitable murder.

Taking a deep breath, Ophelia straightened. Taking her cellphone out of her pocket, she paused the podcast she was listening to and started scrolling through her playlists. She wanted something positive, something uplifting, something which screamed ‘ _I will not be getting murdered tonight_ ’.

Her thumb hovered over a playlist she had made back in Germany when her leg was jerked out from underneath her. Ophelia’s head cracked hard against a tree root, and her leg felt as though a hole had been ripped through it.

The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth along with the grit of dirt. She tried to sit up, but her world was tilting. She everything in her vision was shaking, and it felt as though a thousand church bells were ringing all around her. Every time she tried to open her eyes, she felt like she was going to vomit.

Ophelia laid down a moment, and counted to ten, taking deep breathes as she did and wondering when the final blow was going to take place, seeing as this was most certainly how she was going to die.

Finally, she managed to lift herself, and rubbed her eyes, wincing as she shifted her leg. Blinking a bit, she looked down at the giant, bloody gash in her leg. It looked like a bite mark. Like, something had wrapped its jaws around the meat of her calf, bit down, and then just released her.

But that didn’t make any sense. 

Her thoughts were disturbed by a low, bone-vibrating growl, coming from the bushes to the right of her. Swallowing the fear that was clogging up her throat, Ophelia turned toward the noise. A pair of glowing, blood red eyes stared back at her.

Screaming, she scrambled backwards—despite the pain pulsing through her leg.

She squeezed her eyes shut, still trying to move away from the monster on the path. And she the pain became unbearable, and she had to stop. Ophelia peeked her eyes open, seeing nothing but the darkening woods. Wildly, she looked around her, but there was no sign, nor sound from the thing that had attacked her.

“Alright, alright, it’s fine, everything’s fine,” she muttered to herself, running her hands over her pant pockets, and her coat pockets, before realizing she had no idea where her phone was.

_Everything was not fine._

__

__

_Everything was shit._

The noise of branches snapping, and old leaves crunching to her left, caused her to start. She took more deep breaths, waiting for whatever had tasted her to come back and go in for the kill. Ophelia kept her eyes trained in front of her, where the noise was coming from.

A tall, lanky body crashed from the wood to the trail, crouching slightly.

“I’m someone’s daughter!” she said, trying to make her voice as even as possible. She had heard on one of Clinton’s favorite TV drama doctor shows that the more someone knows about you, the less likely they will kill you. “I have a brother, and a cat. I have…well, I don’t have friends, but I have people who would probably notice if I wasn’t in class.”

She laughed nervously.

The person turned toward her. It was a boy, who had small specks of blood on his face as though the branches had starched him, but no wounds, and there were leaves in his curled hair. His eyes were a bright, strange golden color—stranger even, because she knew that his eyes were normally blue.

Isaac Lahey peered at her, and she swore she heard him growl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so this story starts off at the beginning of Scott and co.'s senior year--however, the deadpool has already happened and the dread doctor stuff, and also the ghost riders. So, it obviously doesn't follow canon--I've done this because one: I love Thiam, two: I want them in high school; and three: because I can. Also, Isaac never went to France, because I love him. If you have any questions, please ask!


	2. The Boy

_This was obviously a dream_ , Ophelia thought, but the persistent pain in her leg told her otherwise.

Blinking, Isaac stood fully, and took a step toward her.

“Lia?” his voice was hoarse, but deeper than she remembered. She had seen him occasionally in the past year, but never actually talked to him, or even got near him enough to hear him talk with anyone else. “ _Ophelia Sheridan_? What are you…?” he twisted his head back and forth, looking around the trail a moment with a confused expression, before his glowing eyes narrowed back in on her. “How long have you…?” 

His eyes found the wound on her leg.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered, actually sounding distressed as he started toward her. “ _Shit, shit, shit_.”

Ophelia attempted to back away from him, but her leg, after a fresh wave of pain, turned out to be useless.

“ _Get away from me_ ,” it came out as a hiss, even though she was aiming for a scream. Ophelia kicked at him with her good leg. “Get the fuck away!”

Isaac faltered, somehow managing to look even more confused than before.

“It’s me,” he said, hand placed on his chest. “Isaac, _remember_ —”

“Did I _stutter_?” she said, amazed by the steadiness of her voice.

Isaac flinched, cowering away from her slightly, which caused just the smallest blossom of guilt to bloom in her stomach.

“Get your glowing-eyed, creepy ass away from me,” she said, swallowing that guilt.

The boy blinked, and his eyes were no longer glowing.

“What are you talking about?” he said hesitantly, glancing around them again.

“Don’t fucking gaslight me, asshole,” she muttered, turning away from him and seeing something glinting slightly in the moonlight about two feet in front of her on the path. She desperately hoped that it was her phone.

“Ophelia, it’s Isaac,” he said slowly, and she glanced back at him, making sure he hadn’t tried to move closer—he hadn’t. “Isaac Lahey.”

“I _know_ who you are,” she said, turning back around and laying down. Ophelia dragged herself as far as her leg would allow her, before stretching her arm as far as she could toward the phone. It was still over a foot away. She gave up, closing her eyes and lying on her back with a sigh.

And she did know who he _was_. She knew him as the tallest kid all throughout elementary school, who couldn’t quite figure out how to use his lanky limbs properly. As he kid who was constantly swallowing his answers and second guessing himself. And as the child who wore a too-big suit, a hand-me-down gifted from his older brother, to his mom’s funeral. She knew the boy who cried when his dad hit a bird with his truck, who was digging graves by the time he was eleven, and who would show her his mom’s scarf collection, which all smelled like lavender. But she didn’t know him _now_.

She had no idea who he had turn into—not since the death of his brother overseas, or the unsolved murder of his father, of which he had been the number one suspect for. She didn’t know the confident boy, who had hung around Scott McCall and dated Allison Argent, and who had lived with Derek Hale, someone who had also been a suspect in various murderers. He was an entirely different person now. Five years, puberty, and a trail of dead loved ones will do that to a guy.

Ophelia gained was strength back, and turned back to reach for her phone again, but she saw Isaac already crouching down next to it. A foot away from her.

He turned the phone over in his pale, thin fingers, before shrugging.

“Screen’s cracked,” he said helpfully, setting the phone down next to her hand.

She gave him a humorless smile as she picked up the phone and sat back up, wincing as she twisted her leg into a more comfortable position.

“Still as observational as ever,” she muttered, holding the power button down.

Nothing.

Not even a flicker. 

“Want to borrow mine?” he was still crouching down, his face was lit up by the blue glow of his phone as he texted someone.

“No,” she said, thinking about it only momentarily. 

Ophelia didn’t actually know anyone’s number who would be useful. Clinton had just gotten a new number, their home phone was disconnected at the moment, and the only other ones she had memorized were various restaurants around town that delivered. She was on a first name basis with Peter at Pizza Hut, but she didn’t think that would warrant a ‘save me’ call at night in the middle of the woods. 

“What I _want_ is for you to go away.”

Isaac pressed the side button his phone, causing the screen to turn off, and pocketed his phone. He sat on the dirt trail roughly two feet away from her. 

“I’m not going to leave you bleeding and alone in the middle of the woods at night,” he said, rolling his eyes, and making some sort of drawing in the dirt path with his finger. It looked like, from what she could see, circles within circles. “You’re basically a murderer’s wet dream.”

“Someone else is bound to walk this trail, and when they do, I’m assuming they will take pity on me and help me,” she said, because it was the only scenario she could think of that might feasibly happen.

What she was most concerned about was bleeding, alone in the middle of the woods at night with an _accused murderer_.

“Right,” Isaac said, nodding and continuing to trace the dirt with his finger. “Someone. At nine o’clock at night. On a Tuesday. Just not _me_.”

Her eyes started to sting now—she could feel the tears starting to build up. Mostly because the shock was wearing off, and both her leg and head were throbbing badly, but also, because it was starting to look like she would have to give in and accept his help, even after all her resistance. Which was embarrassing.

“Just not you,” she said as evenly as possible.

He nodded again, and it was silent for a beat.

“ _So_ ,” he said, drawing the ‘o’ out, and slapping his palms against his knees. “When did you move back?”

She glared at him.

“What?” his palms jerked upward to show he meant no harm. “I’m just going to sit over here, while we wait for _someone_ to come rescue you.”

Ophelia stared at him for a minute, before sighing, and said, “Last August.”

Isaac’s eyes widened a bit with surprise.

“I didn’t even… _Where have you_ …? How come I haven’t—” he stuttered, before she cut him off with a wave of her hand, winching at the pulsing pain that started vibrating up her leg.

“You didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I’ve been in class, we mostly have different courses. And I’ve been actively avoiding a lot of people,” she said through clenched teeth, pulling a strand of her hair straight, and watching it bounce up into its natural curly state.

Ophelia really didn’t want to bring up the fact that she had heard so many rumors about his group of friends, and how people who hang out with them keep mysteriously dying. One of them being his late girlfriend. Or how he was rarely in class, because him and his friends were always rushing places, and skipping. Or that when he was in class, he was late, or barely paying attention, or only sitting with one of this friends. And with all that, she sort of understood why he hadn’t noticed her return.

There was another beat of silence.

“You should have said something,” he muttered, drawing in the dirt again.

“My brother is on the lacrosse team with you,” she muttered, glancing up momentarily to see Isaac’s head cock to the side. “I mean, I’ve been actively avoiding you, but I wasn’t trying to _hide_ that I moved back. You’ve just been… _busy_.”

He looked down the trail in thought.

“Wait, Sheridan?” he said, his eyes growing a bit bigger. “Clinton Sheridan? Huh, I guess that _is_ your brother,” when she did nothing more than roll her eyes, he continued. “Still, you should have said something.”

“Why?”

“Because we used to be friends,” his eyebrows came together, though it was somehow getting darker and she could barely see him now. “I thought we were, anyway.”

“Yeah, when we were, like, twelve, and you weren’t accused of murder,” she muttered, trying to turn on her phone again, even though she knew it wouldn’t work.

“Wrongfully,” he narrowed his eyes at her, and his mouth twisted unpleasantly.

“How am I supposed to know that?” she snapped.

“By asking? Do I look like I’m in jail to you?” he said, showing her his wrists—as though the fact that they were uncuffed was proof of innocence.

“The homicide clearance rate is roughly sixty-five percent in America, and I’m pretty sure this town’s is a lot lower. Sorry, if I don’t trust the police to _always_ do their job properly.”

“I forgot you were always basically a walking statistic generator,” he said, running his hands through his curls. “So, you think I killed my dad?”

Ophelia gave him a hard look, and he stared back. She remembered the color of his skin that coated his ribs a few weeks after his mom’s funeral. How he hadn’t wanted to take off his shirt to swim at the lake with her, how she basically forced him to. She remembered how ugly it was—the purple skin mixing with a nauseating yellow fade. How his face was tinged red when told her that he fell down the stairs in his basement, and how a painfully sad laugh bubbled out of him, before he took off down toward the lake. He swam so much that day that she had thought he was trying to wear himself out so badly he’d drown.

She shrugged and broke eye contact.

“Wow,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “You’ve changed.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“The Ophelia Sheridan I remember had an answer for everything,” he said, biting his lip a little as he peered at her. 

Ophelia just shook her head, tears stinging her eyes again. She wanted to say she _did_ have an answer for everything, but growing up had given her a filter, which hadn’t been a problem in childhood. But she didn’t, and before she could think of another answer there was a loud noise coming from behind her—it sounded like there were people running hastily through the woods.

Isaac stood up, staring in direction of the noise.

Two people skidded from out of the woods—one wheezing hard, and the other rushing toward them.

Scott McCall fell to his knees in front of her, and gave Isaac a quick glance, before looking at her leg.

“Did you see what bit you?” he asked, and she swore for just a second his eyes flickered red.


	3. The Noise

“You know who that is, don’t you?” Stiles Stilinski hissed from the driver’s seat.

Scott’s phone was the only source of light, besides the jeeps headlights on that pitch black road. He was getting so many messages that it just seemed to vibrate without pausing.

Ophelia rested her head against the cool window, unable to see a thing out of it, except for the lines on the side of the road swishing by. She couldn’t really remember how she got in the jeep—only vague snippets of Scott talking to her soothingly, and at some point she nodded, which led to Isaac picking her up. And now she was here. 

The three boys in the jeep along with her were a majority of who she had been successfully avoiding for over a year. And now she was stuck in a metal box with them, while injured. There was no way she’d be fighting her way out of this, or even running away.

She was fucked.

“ _Ophelia Sheridan_ ,” Stiles said, seemingly unable to whisper properly. “The she-devil herself.”

It was getting harder for her to keep her eyes open. She imagined that the amount of shock her body went through drained her, along with the persistent pain in both her head and leg, and also the twisted knot of panic that thrummed unpleasantly every time one of them just so much as looked at her. Ophelia was too afraid to actually close her eyes, because she was pretty sure that she had sustained a concussion, which meant if she slept, she might never wake up.

She caught a glimpse of Scott turning to give her a quick look in the reflection of the window.

“ _Who_?” Scott said, which was so very flattering.

“You’re first girlfriend,” Stiles muttered. “Remember? Sixth grade? The one who _accidentally_ dropped that encyclopedia on my head in the library, which caused me to hit the bookshelf, and gave me a bloody nose. I bled all over the human anatomy section. And the one who kicked that ball so hard in kick ball that I got a literal concussion. Satan incarnate? The violent, mean, bitchy—”

“You know,” Isaac said, who was sitting in the backseat with her, looking out his own window. He had his phone between two fingers and was hitting it against his leg, while flipping it in his palm—the screen lit up with a series of messages, which he seemed to be ignoring. “We can hear you.”

“Maybe _you_ can,” Stiles attempted to say under his breath.

“No,” Ophelia said, wearily. “We can hear you.”

Stiles fell quiet, and then Scott suddenly grabbed his friend’s arm, and twisted toward her.

“Oh, _Ophelia Sheridan_!” he said, smiling broadly at her—a smile she didn't return.

She was getting really sick of people saying her name.

“When did you move back?” Scott asked, his phone stile buzzing incessantly in his lap.

She saw Stiles roll his eyes in the rearview mirror as he lifted his hands up off the wheel in annoyance.

“Last August,” Isaac said for her, not shifting his gaze from the window.

Her eyes cut toward him as she scowled.

"We dated for, what? Two weeks in the sixth grade?” Scott said looking amused by the childhood memory.

“No,” Ophelia said with a large sigh. “No, we did not.”

Scott looked confused for a moment, his eyes darting back to Stiles, before the lightbulb when off and he turned toward her grinning again.

“Oh, right! I asked Stiles to ask you if you wanted to date me, and then he told me you did, even though he never even asked you, so I kept calling you and trying to hold your hand and sending you notes, and you were confused…" Scott’s awkward laugh died in his throat, and then his eyebrows knit. “Wait…you’ve been here over a _year_ , and didn’t say anything? Why not?"

“More than that,” Isaac said, finally looking toward them, and leaning toward the front. “She’s been actively avoiding us.”

“Good,” Stiles muttered, and Scott frowned at him.

“Why?” Scott asked, looking back toward her. 

“Oh, cause were psychopathic murderers,” Isaac said, leaning his forehead against the passenger side headrest.

They had just arrived into town, but Stiles veered off the main street, which led toward the hospital. Ophelia’s heart started racing again. She saw Isaac's head twist slightly toward her; his eyes narrowed.

“ _Alright_ ,” Ophelia said, louder than she intended. “I can speak for myself. I never said I thought you were a psychopathic murder, I just said you were accused of murder, and that I didn’t want to be stuck alone in the woods with you. I don’t think it’s particularly weird to not want to be stuck alone with a stranger.”

Scott frowned, and turned toward the front of the jeep.

"Not that being stuck with three strangers in a jeep is any better," she muttered, swallowing the fresh wave of fear that was creeping up her throat. She saw Isaac roll his eyes again, and look away from her, his head twisting back toward the window.

Ophelia hoped that Stiles was just taking a shortcut to the hospital.

Stiles suddenly swerved hard, causing her leg to twist uncomfortably and she let out a hiss of pain. Scott punch Stiles' shoulder as the latter put the jeep into park.

The moment the jeep stilled, Isaac threw open the door next to him, and slammed it shut.

“Hey!” Stiles yelled, opening his own door and scrambling out of his seat. “What did I say scarf boy? You ride in the jeep, then you respect the jeep. Stop slamming doors.”

Ophelia unbuckled her seatbelt as she peered out of the front windshield, noticing that were not in fact at the hospital, but the local veterinary clinic.

“Is this a joke?” she asked as Isaac mockingly pulled the door closest to her open softly as softly as he could, and threw Stiles a dry grin. “Are you trying to tell me that you think I’m a bitch, or something? Because this is exactly why I didn’t want to—”

“Everything will be fine,” Scott said as he got out of the jeep as well. “Trust us.”

“ _Trust you_?” Ophelia said, pushing herself to the other side where Isaac had been sitting. “People _die_ around you! Boyd died, and Erica! Garrett and Violet! That Allison girl and that Aiden kid! And a whole slew of them last year. A goddamn _slew_. Why the _hell_ would I trust _you_?”

The trio exchanged surprised looks, before both Stiles and Isaac looked toward Scott.

“Ophelia,” Scott said, swallowing hard and stepping in front of Isaac, who rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. “We didn’t… None of those people…” he sighed heavily, before speaking again in that soothing tone he had used on her in the woods. “That thing that bit you, it’s going to keep looking for you—so, we need to get you inside and see exactly what’s going on.”

“Animals don’t track people down, Scott,” Ophelia spat, pushing herself as far as she could into the door and away from him. “That’s insane.”

“Alright,” Isaac said, shoving Scott aside. “Get out of the car.”

“Fuck off.”

“Lia,” Isaac said, and she closed her eyes briefly at the sound of her childhood nickname tumbling out of his mouth, in his new, strange voice. He reached his hand inside the jeep, toward her. She stared at it warily. “What's the worst that could possibly happen?”

She looked at them all incredulously.

“The _worst_ —? Are you fucking kidding me? Oh, I don’t know? Maybe you’ll take me in there and torture me? Or murder me? Or _rape_ me? Jesus Christ, the _worst_ that can happen," she said, feeling tear prick at her eyes again as she shook her head. 

There was something in the pit of her stomach telling her that going inside that clinic was a terrible idea—and it was probably her intuition letting her know she was about to die at the hands of these teenage murdering, psychopaths. Well, that was _most likely_ the reason.

Scott looked back at Stiles, who merely shrugged, wide-eyed.

“Why would we drive you all the way here just to…” Scott winced as he waved his hand, unable to repeat her accusations.

“Because someone could have been near the woods and heard my screams, but you work at this place—and I don’t know, maybe you have a creepy torture dungeon? How the hell am I supposed to know? _I don’t know you people_.”

Again, they looked back at Stiles for help, who was now scratching his head—his nose scrunched up.

“Well, I don’t like her, but she is being reasonably cautious,” Stiles said. "I mean, I'm surprised she even got into the jeep with us, honestly."

"Oh my God," Ophelia muttered, trying to open the door behind her, but realizing that she wouldn't get very far, even if she did get out of it. She thought she heard Scott hiss, “ _You’re not helping_.”

Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut, and count to ten. Maybe she could burst of the jeep, scream bloody murder, and someone would hear and come save her.

“We should just tell her," Scott said with a sigh of resignation.

“What?" Isaac said. "Why?”

Ophelia looked back at them, waiting for an opportunity where all of them were focused on something other than her, thought it seemed like a slim possibility that would happen.

“Because, _idiot_ , she’s going to find out either way,” Stiles yelled, gesturing to her leg wound.

Isaac's eyes cut toward Stiles, before he shrugged stiffly, and motioned Scott on.

“Ophelia…" Scott said, taking a deep breath, and looking at her square in the eye. "We’re werewolves. Well, Isaac and I are, Stiles—”

“Excuse me?" she said, forgetting her escape plan for a moment, and blinking rapidly. What did they think she was an idiot?

“I think what Scott meant to say, is that the bite is a _gift_ —” Stiles said mockingly jaunty.

“Stiles, shut up," Scott groaned, raking his hands over his face. He took another deep breath and looked back at her. "We’re werewolves, and that bite—”

“Right…so, let’s see if I’m following you," Ophelia nodded slowly. She could deal with them being crazy as long as their crazy didn't also come with her being murdered. "You’re telling me that, you’re Sam,” she said pointing at Isaac, “And you’re Dean,” she moved her toward Scott.

Both of the boys exchanged looks of confusion.

“Woah,” Stiles said, shoving his way in between the two boys standing in front of her. “Let’s get one thing straight—if _anyone_ is Scott’s brother, it’s _me_.”

“So, you’re Sam, Scott’s Dean, and Isaac’s his boyfriend, Castiel, am I getting all this crazy bullshit you’re throwing at me right?” Ophelia basically spat as Stiles’ eyes narrowed.

“First of all, the Winchesters are supernatural hunters, not werewolves. And second of all Castiel and Dean are _not_ dating, do you even watch the show? Sure, there’s an obvious implication from the writers—” Stiles started to rant, before Scott cut him off, saying “Stiles, we do not have time for this.”

Ophelia has rolled her eyes, and when she looked back both Scott and Isaac’s faces had distorted. Hair had just sprung up where it hadn’t been before, and it looked as though bones had literally transformed beneath their skin. They had fangs instead of incisors and claws instead of fingernails. Isaac's eyes were glowing yellow and Scott's a deep red. Ophelia's head was pounding, because someone was screaming—and it took her a minute, after she instinctively reached for the door handle and tried to crawl out of the jeep, to realize that it was her.

“ _Oh my God. I’m going to die. This is how I die_ ," she felt tears running down her face as she started falling toward the pavement, but someone caught her. The hand that caught her arm had large, black, pumping veins, and when she looked down at her own arm, she realized that she had the same poisonous-looking veins.

Slowly, she looked up and saw Isaac, grimacing back at her.

She screamed again, and tried to scramble away from him—her mind feeling a lot clearer, but her leg burning with agonizing pain as she untangle herself from Isaac.

“Look, we’re just trying to help,” Scott said, there was panic in his voice.

“Good job, Isaac,” Stiles said as all three of them had apparently come to this side of the jeep. “Real great. As though she wasn't freaked out enough.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Isaac said, glaring back at him and trying to help her up again, but Ophelia coiled away from him. “She’s in pain, and she’s scared.”

“And you’re just so caring,” Stiles said with a sardonic grin. “Alright, crazy, let's go.”

"You think _I'm crazy _?" Ophelia said, her head swiveling back and forth between the three of them. She was rubbing her arm, which looked completely normal again—like nothing had happened at all. " _Me_? What the fuck was wrong with your faces? What the hell did you just do to me? Did you guys drug me, or something?”__

____

____

She was starting to feel light headed—it was too much. The pain, the fear, the fact that she had just seen two boys she had grown up with distort into…werewolves? Her arm and his arm with the strange veins. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. It couldn’t be.

Headlights shown on them, and a truck pulled up—one Ophelia recognized. And for a moment her heart soared with hope, and she actually felt the tiniest bit of relief.

Theo Raeken stepped out of the truck. His grin faltered a bit when he looked at her, but then he looked away and towards the men standing around her. It was then she realized that he hadn’t shown up by accident, but that he been called there. Her heart plummeted.

"You still haven't gotten her inside? Jesus, you three are fucking useless," Theo slammed the truck door shut, picked her up and threw over his shoulder, in one smooth motion, before heading toward the veterinary clinic.

Ophelia placed her hands on his back, and glanced up at the trio following them. She couldn’t even think properly now. Nothing was making sense.

 _Everything was fucked_.

Theo gently set her down on a metal table within the clinic, before crouching down to examine the bite on her leg. Ophelia stared at him, but he didn’t even look up at her.

Swallowing, Ophelia found the nerve to look around at the other’s gathered in the room with them.

Kira Yurimaura, who had been her lab partner in the past, sat on another table across from her, giving her a weak smile. Malia Tate, the mental patient, who had been lost in the woods for most of her life, stood next to Kira with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at Ophelia. Over at a computer desk, bent over a book was a middle-aged, black man she had never met before, and Lydia Martin, who had once been the most popular girl in school, before she turned into a nutjob. And in the other corner were a group of Clinton's friends, who besides Theo, surprised her by being there the most. She knew Mason Hewitt, only because he had sat next to her a few times at her brother's lacrosse games, and wouldn't stop talking. And then there was Mason’s boyfriend, Corey, and his best friend, Liam Dunbar.

It was an odd gathering of people to say the least.

"Right, so," Scott said as he came into the room, trailed by Stiles and Isaac. "Ophelia said she was bit by something with red eyes, meaning we have a problem."

Ophelia didn’t remember telling him that, which meant she must have on the walk from the woods to the jeep. Everything was muddled, the whole trip felt like had taken them days, when it probably only took less than an hour.

"Another alpha," Mason clarified, which got him a lot of eye rolls. " _Intense_."

Everyone else was silent—their eyes on Theo, who after a beat, finally looked up from her leg and around at everyone else.

" _What_?" he snarled, glaring at everyone in the room. "I didn't have anything to do with this." He gestured toward her leg for emphasis of ‘this’.

"Everyone who believes him say 'I'," Stiles deadpanned from where he was perched on the desk next to Lydia.

"I," Liam said weakly, and when no one else said anything, he sighed, “Come on guys, you don’t _really_ think…”

Isaac leaned against a pillar to her left, and let out an annoyed sigh, cutting Liam off.

"It wasn't Theo, it wasn’t his scent."

Ophelia couldn’t believe the words coming out of these people’s mouths. _Another alpha? His scent?_

"Yeah, but it could be someone that he’s working for," Malia said, though the words came out in a low growl.

Isaac shrugged.

"Theo's helped us through a lot. Let’s not jump to conclusions," Scott said, though it looked like it pained him. "Innocent, until proven guilty."

"He's already been proven guilty," Isaac said pointedly.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, and Isaac quirked up an eyebrow at him. “When he tried to make his own pack and turn us against each other.”

“And,” Isaac said, “when he had you killed just a few months ago.”

"I'm not dealing with this shit," Theo muttered, standing up and adjusting his hat in aggravation.

There was the noise that caused the room to still—a tink of metal hitting something solid, and then the scream of shattering glass and a whistle. Ophelia didn’t even have time to look at where the noise was coming from, but watched as an arrow slide cleanly into Isaac’s throat.

He tried to speak, but it only came out as a bubble of blood.

Her throat constricted as he fell to his knees and collapsed—chaos broke out. Someone was screaming an earsplitting scream, someone else was trying to raise their voice over it, and somethings had flung her off the table. Ophelia slammed to the ground, her skull bouncing off the concrete. And then her cheek was resting against the cold, dirty floor as she stared into Isaac's cold, unblinking eyes.


	4. The Vate

"Right, so," Scott said again as he came into the room again, trailed by Stiles and Isaac. "Ophelia said she was bit by something with red eyes, meaning we have a problem."

Ophelia's head whipped toward him so fast she thought she might have given herself whiplash. Isaac had just been in front of her dead, and now he was reentering the room, not even glancing at her as he headed toward the pillar he had just been leaning against.

"Another alpha," Mason said again, and Ophelia turned her stare toward him. "Intense."

What the Hell was happening?

Everyone's eyes found Theo, and there was that pregnant pause again. Ophelia felt like she was about to vomit. Her hands were shaking.

"What?" Theo snapped, his eyes darting to everyone in the room. "I didn't have anything to do with this."

"Everyone who believes him say—," Stiles deadpanned.

"Isaac," Ophelia said, finding her voice—it came out raspy and hoarse, causing almost everyone in the room to start, and look her way. Isaac paused with his fingers still on his lip, which he had been picking at, and his eyes darting to her.

"Well, I was going to say 'I', not Isaac, but whatever," Stiles muttered. "Guess we see who side she's on."

Ophelia swallowed hard—her throat stung badly.

"Isaac, could you please come here?" she asked, and held out her hand. She didn't sound like herself—she sounded small and afraid. Everyone was staring at her; she could feel their eyes burning her skin. Theo had stood up and took a step back, peering between them.

Isaac glanced at a few others around the room, before his wary gaze scraped its way back to her.

"Please," she whispered quietly, that barely any sound came out at all, and stretched her hand out a little further.

He shrugged himself off the pillar and started toward her just as the tink and then scream of breaking glass filled the room again.

Ophelia's face was slammed into someone's chest and arms covered her head. She pushed the chest away from her to see Isaac, who was not looking at her, but the window where the arrow had come through—his hands still tangled in her hair. She pressed her forehead back on his chest, and let out a shaky sigh.  
The arrow had skidded across the concrete floor. The fear from before, the accusations she had spit out felt like they had happened a lifetime ago, rather than just a few hours, minutes even. Ophelia felt overwhelming relieved that she could feel the thumping beat of the boy she once knew’s heart against her head.

"What the fuck?" Stiles yelled, causing Ophelia to flinch. She felt Isaac tense a little as she turned her head slightly to look at Stiles.

"Stiles..." Scott said, putting a hand out against the other boy’s chest.

"No, she knew that was going to happen! How did you know that was going to happen?" He yelled, pushing against Scott's hand.

"Shut up, Stilinski," Theo said, voice full of venom.

"It's a hunter's arrow," Malia snarled from where she was crouched down on the ground.

"Is this a trap?" Kira asked in alarm. "Did they get us all in one place just to—"

"Fuck that," Theo muttered, flicking his claws out and starting toward the door with Liam and Malia snarling in tow.

"Wait," the older man near Lydia said, walking toward Ophelia and Isaac, causing the trio starting toward the door to stop.

"She didn't even know where we were going, how could she set us up?" Isaac said as his hands fell from her hair, and Stiles gave him an eye twitching glare.

"I don't know! Maybe she took a wild guess? Or she has a tracker on her phone—"

"Her phone’s broken."

"On her person than, it wouldn't be the first time someone operated on someone to try to kill us," Stiles spat, flinging a hand out toward Theo as proof of something. "You said it yourself—she thinks we're a bunch of murderers why wouldn't she—"

"Ophelia," the man said softly, trying to catch her eye. "My name is Deaton, I run the veterinary clinic here in Beacon Hills."

Ophelia looked at him—completely bewildered.

"How did you know that was going to happen?"

When she didn't say anything, Isaac pulled away from her slightly causing her to almost fall forward without the support of his chest. 

"Because...I saw it before," she said, seeing almost everyone's eyes narrow.

"Right," Stiles said loudly, "and I can move things with my mind."

Deaton held up a hand to silence him, and Stiles’ rolled his eyes and let out an annoyed huff.

"When did you see it?"

"Just before...everyone was saying that Theo was helping whatever it is that bit me, and then that arrow...it..." She looked up at Isaac's throat, and touched her own—she could so clearly see the arrow slicing through his skin. Ophelia looked away from Isaac's soft, vulnerable skin, and before glancing back at Deaton. "It killed him."

Deaton nodded slowly, and back peddled toward Lydia, taking the book from her hands.

"So are we fighting, or what?" Theo snapped.

"A car drove off, like, a minute after the arrow went through the window," Corey said. "It sounds like they already left."

"Are we going to discuss that we might have a mole in here?" Stiles said, his voice nearing hysterical—not that that was new for him, as he gestured toward Ophelia. 

"How could I possibly be a mole? I've been here for less than an hour," Ophelia snapped, feeling the fear creep back in, as well as annoyance. At least she was finally feeling a semblance of herself. "Moles infiltrate over a long period of time, and—"

"Alright, alright," Stiles snapped. "I don't need a vocabulary lesson."

"I think Ophelia might be a Vate," Deaton said, setting the book down in front of Scott as Lydia stood from the desk and came to look as well.

"A what?" Stiles said, blinking rapidly.

"Well, in this day-in-age most people would call her a psychic, or a seer, but those are generally hoaxes. Vates and Druids used to work very closely together, before Vates were killed off in witch burnings—it was said that all the bloodlines had been completely wiped out. The difference between a Vate and a modern psychic is that there needs to be some sort of sacrifice in order for a vision to occur."

“As in human?" Liam asked, glancing at Ophelia.

“Well, no," Deaton said, looking up at Ophelia. "No necessarily. Any sort of sacrifice would work, but human allows for the longest and most accurate visions.”

“But…nothing was sacrificed,” Stiles said, before peering in her direction. “…or did you do some witch voodoo shit, before we got there?”

“What the Hell are you talking about?" Ophelia asked, burying her face into her hands. 

“No, Stiles, not necessarily,” Deaton said, ignoring her completely. “It’s up to the particular Vate on what sacrifice really means. Sacrificing pride, for instance, could before enough to trigger a seeing. Ophelia, has this ever happened before?”

“What the seeing someone die, and reliving the moment thing? No,” she said, peaking up at him through her fingers.

“Have you always felt that you have strong gut feelings, or intuition?”

Ophelia glanced at all of them, letting her hands fall away from her face.

“She thinks she knows everything,” Stiles finally said. “Always has.”

“Oh, I do not," she snapped.

"She's usually right," Isaac shrugged.

“Vate’s are highly intuitive, but the bite—like Lydia with her banshee powers—must have set off the more overt seeing powers.”

"Banshee?" Ophelia said faintly; everyone ignored her again.

"She thought we were going to rape, torture, and murder her in here—always right my ass,” Stiles practically roared.

"Intuition is a feeling, Stiles,” Deaton said, his tone suggesting that he shouldn’t have to be explaining himself as much as he was. “Not necessarily knowing what's going to happen. Ophelia felt as though something bad was going to happen if she came with you guys—and then, she watched Isaac die. Her intuition was not wrong, just the circumstances of what she guessed."

“Right, this is all great and all," Ophelia nodded, waving her finger around in a circle. "But could you just take me home?” she asked Theo, who shrugged and retracted his claws.

“Wait…you two know each other?” Scott asked, his eyebrows contracting.

“Yeah,” Theo said, giving a quick shrug as he keys swung around his finger. “We’re friends.”

“Acquaintances,” Ophelia corrected, and pushed herself off the table—almost falling forward when her leg didn’t hold up, but Isaac caught her.

“Lunch buddies,” Theo grinned, striding toward them and picking her up in a smooth motion.

Isaac looked as though he were about to say something, but shook his head instead.

“People who eat lunch in proximity of one another,” Ophelia said through gritted teeth.

“After school snack and study buddies.”

“Two people who have a verbally mutually beneficial contract.”

“Girl helps boy with homework after he comes back from Hell and is failing all his classes, and boy helps her little brother with lacrosse—” Theo said, still grinning.

“You don’t even play lacrosse,” Liam basically spat.

Theo’s grin turned somewhat devilish as his eyes raked over the boy.

“It’s not that hard to learn,” he said, and Liam’s lip twitched toward a snarl.

“How did you not know about this?” Stiles yelled at Liam, who looked startled.

“Know about what?”

“This!” Stiles gestured to Ophelia and Theo.

“I did know?” Liam said, looking confused. “They eat lunch together every day…I didn’t realize him having a girlfriend—”

“Acquaintance, who eats lunch in proximity to him and has a mutually beneficial contract—” Ophelia started, but Liam glared at her.

“I’m not saying all of that,” he growled.

“Are we done here?” Theo said, and when no one answered he said. “Great, have a good night.”

And started toward the door.

“So, are you a werewolf too?” Ophelia muttered, adjusting herself in his arms. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room following them out.

Theo smirked and shrugged again.

“Something like that,” he said.


End file.
